Restless Memories
Restless memories, faded yesterdays --
On my darkened wall a light appears,
grows bright, passes into darkness.
Outside: the sound of ill-tuned engines.
A street lamp shines through my window --
the curtains really should be drawn.
In a hot July we sweltered
under the weight of words,
polysyllabic, pretentious --
a regimen that ordered what seemed
only a half-waking existence.
In those sweaty dark-baked cells
we bickered. We preened. We posed.
And we glanced surreptitiously,
each at the others. Outside
bloomed the warm, sweet, magnolias.
The sap of youth ran thick and piquant.
Finally it ended
(yet never ended?)
Cars still go by outside,
engines louder, even raucous,
rudely mocking. The hour is late.
Lights reflected on the walls
brighten, dim, disappear.
The curtain really should be drawn.
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